I'm not sure how it was that I first decided to go to the Brasserie Balzar in Paris, but I remember it clearly. It was October, 1996 and I'd spent the week with my mom at an apartment she'd rented. To thank her, I took her out to dinner at Balzar. It was the first time we ever ordered a bottle of wine at dinner together, and we imagined ourselves quite French when we finished our meals with digestifs of Armagnac and Cognac. Though our French was minimal at best, the waiters were friendly and helpful and it was a magical evening I remember fondly.
I returned a few days later with my parents and had my first plate of escargots, and at the end of the meal as we left, I stopped to tell the maitre d' -- in my really bad French -- that his restaurant was my favorite restaurant in the whole world. He gave me a little postcard picture (in B&W) of the restaurant with all the waiters out front from what looked like a long time ago. I thanked him and smiled a lot, and I still have that card.
Fast forward to many returns to Paris, each with a requisite visit to Balzar. And each time, good, but somehow fading. Reading Paris to the Moon a few years ago reminded me of my love for Balzar and heightened my expectations upon return visits, but the Balzar never seemed *as* good as it had during previous trips.
Last week I met a colleague for lunch at Balzar and left deflated, and a little sad. The meal itself wasn't bad, it just wasn't great and the magic, it seemed, was gone. Perhaps, given all my culinary experiences in the past nine years, I had outgrown Balzar. I'd told Jason this sad state of affiars when he'd arrived, and so the other night while walking in the neighborhood, we decided we'd give it another try, for old times sake.
"Was it possible to take two for dinner without a reservation?" I asked the mustachoed gentleman in a black suit at the door.
"But of course!" he replied happily, and he lead us to a little table in the corner. I ordered my aperitif (kir vin blanc) and we began to discuss the menu when Jason asked what andouillete was. Before I could really answer, the waiter appeared at our table.
(The following dialogue occurred in French, yay!)
"Have you had andouillete before?" he asked.
"No," I said.
"Then you cannot have it! It is not for those that have never had it before. It is a specialty, but a specialty 95% of people do not like. I am sorry."
Since we had no intention of ordering it, I wasn't upset to hear this. And of course, our waiter went on in detail to explain just why we couldn't have it: its smell and, using his stomach, explained where it came from. Too many people, it seems, order the andouillete and then are quite unhappy when it arrives. He was very nice about it, said he wouldn't eat it either, just too strong for him. And he pointed out other specialties on the menu.
It was reminded me of my first trip to Balzar, when the waiter, upon hearing my mother and I both order Cognac, asked whether we knew Armagnac. When he found out we didn't, he said we must have one Cognac and one Armagnac. At Balzar I find this behavior by waiters to be very considerate, almost paternal. They are concerned that you have a good experience while dining, whether experience means trying something new, or avoiding something new because it might be too much.
Throughout the meal, the waiter continued to impress. He was very sweet, continuing to speak with me in French (he helped me correct my pronunciation of raie and told me it was la when I asked), and was happy to bring two forks when we ordered the tarte aux fraises for dessert. My warm feelings for Balzar returned as we ate. And by the time our meal was over and the check paid, I felt happy again in my favorite restaurant in the world. I headed to the bathroom and Jason waited for me at the door. We said good night to the maitre d' and as we exited, I asked if he'd said good bye to our waiter, since I hadn't seen him.
"No, I didn't. I didn't see him." he told me.
"Drat!" I thought. I had wanted to say good bye.
We walked down the street, past the front of the restaurant, and I looked in through the windows, towards where our table had been. Then I caught site of our waiter! He was in the back by the kitchen, looking across the room towards our table and seemed to notice we'd left. I waved good bye from outside. He saw me and smiled a big smile and then waved back. My heart warmed; I loved our waiter. I loved our dinner. I loved Balzar once again.
Brasserie Balzar
49, rue des Ecoles
75005 Paris
One of the eternal questions that plagues me here in Paris is the question of the carafe of water. Why is it that every time I order une carafe de l'eau I stand a roughly 30% chance of getting it? And why is it that whenever a French person seems to order absolutely anything -- even just a tiny coffee -- they seem to get a liter of water alongside? Why? My food comes. My wine comes. But hardly ever do I get the water without repeating my request several times. I am now practicing how to say, "Monsieur, I am dying of thirst. The carafe, please!" in French. Is this some secret way for the French to stick it to me while still being polite?
I've been doing a fairly good job of eating at lots of yummy places while here in Paris. Obviously I've been doing a fairly crappy job of documenting those meals, mostly out of sheer laziness. But last night we decided to eat in for a change, and to soften the repeated blows my wallet has taken during this trip. To turn the documentation tide, I present a photo of what we had for dinner on Saturday night.
For our shopping, we decided we'd head to La Grande Epicerie Paris, the amazing food market at The Bon Marché -- one of Paris' grand department stores. We started in the wine section and being, in reality, poser gourmands and wine afficionados, we just grabbed two bottles that looked good and tried to escape before the woman started speaking to us in French about wine. My French class hasn't gotten to that level of interaction yet, and I wasn't up to the challenge. The take? A half bottle of Domaine Pradelle Crozes-Hermitage, 2002 (white) and a full size 2000 Saint-Joseph from Ferraton Père & Fils. Where they good? Seemed so to us. We're pretty much happy with anything from the Rhône.
Next stop, the meat counter where we procured some mousse de canard. Somehow I managed to leave it out of the nice photo, so here it is just tossed on a plate. Then, on to the cheese counter!
Here we were at a loss as there were just too many cheeses to choose from. Though I have French Cheeses: The Visual Guide to More Than 350 Cheeses from Every Region of France, it was no use among the vast selection (because I didn't have it with me and hadn't memorized it all, yet...). So I used my every-improving French to explain our predicament to Madame la Fromagère:
(In French, sort of)
Madame, we do not know the cheeses well of France. Is it possible that you make a selection of three cheeses for us to know more the cheese?
Of course!, she replied, quite happy to be put to such a test. So she asked a few more questions and we ended up with a Brie de Meaux, a Comté Rivoire, and a bouton Charolai which was a button of a lovely aged goat cheese. They were all excellent, and Madame chose well for us. The Charolai was my favorite new cheese in a long time.
We had also picked up a saucisson sec aux myrtilles, a dry sausage with a blueberry(!) coating. It was good, but didn't have much blueberry flavor. And of course, the requisite baguettes upon which to spread our yummy cheese and mousse. It was tasty and easy and I have to say, I want to do it again very soon!
This is really disturbing: the New York Times reports that Stores Say Wild Salmon, but Tests Say Farm Bred in several stores in New York City.
Tests performed for The New York Times in March on salmon sold as wild by eight New York City stores, going for as much as $29 a pound, showed that the fish at six of the eight were farm raised. Farmed salmon, available year round, sells for $5 to $12 a pound in the city.
Emphasis mine.
Given the contaminants found in farmed salmon, this deceptive practice troubling for consumers trying to make informed healthy decisions. I used to eat a lot of salmon but have really dropped the amount I eat in the past few years. Now it's less than once a month whereas it used to be twice a week, if not more. It's too bad because I love salmon, but it's too difficult to determine its source, especially when suppliers appear to be lying.
According to this article, French mobilise to save cheeses under threat of extinction France is losing cheeses as producers are dying and taking their cheese making secrets to the grave.
A worrisome trend is looming in this country of cheese-lovers, where the nation's rich palette of 1,000 cheeses is being nibbled away at with the annual demise of several varieties..."The Mont-d'Or galette, which had been produced for some 400 years, disappeared this summer following the death of the last producer who knew the secret of how to make it."
That does sound worrisome. What's also worrisome is the reference in this article to "National Cheese Day" on "Friday." Did I just miss National Cheese Day?!?! Why weren't there big cheese posters everywhere telling me about this? Sure, they take the time to hang a giant neon sign for the Olympics on the Hôtel de Ville, but why not a giant poster of Brique de Brebis? No wonder a disastrous cheese extinction looms!
